The Happy Return
by karabair
Summary: Gunn pays a visit to Sunnydale, because Wesley doesn't want to. Giles and Anya show up, too.


Title: Keen Buffy

Description: Aspiring Los Angeles Police Department detective Buffy Summers faces the challenge of her life when she embarks on an exchange program to the Criminal Investigation

Characters: Buffy/Spike, secondary Wes/Fred, and various others.

Written for: lj user"spikesbabyblues" , who requested human-AU Spike/Buffy.

Thanks to: My many many years of reading British police procedurals. I'm most indebted to Reginald Hill, whose character Peter Pascoe reminds me a lot of Wesley in mid-era I Angel /I . Also a shout-out to Peter Robinson's Alan Banks series and Ruth Rendell's Inspector Wexford books. And of course to the Fox series I Keen Eddie /I , although that really inspired nothing aside from the idea of an American cop detailed to the UK.

Disclaimers: My understanding of British law, procedure, and police hierarchy comes entirely from reading detective novels and may be completely inaccurate or out of date.

I. I Impending Disasters /I 

"It's the end of the world," said Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.

"Now, there." Winifred Burkle reached onto his desk and gently placed her fingers on the back of his hand. "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."

"Yes, it is," Wesley insisted, "I can't imagine a way that it could be any worse." But he was already lying. It could easily have been worse. The most beautiful woman he had ever met could not be sitting across from him. She could not be pressing her hand against his skin. As the head of the divisional forensics lab, she could have trusted an underling to bring crime scene reports by the police station. Surely, he thought, the occasion didn't completely justify her presence in person. They had been friends almost since she came to Yorkshire, but lately it had seemed like something more might be growing between them. And today, she had made a point to stop by his office, could she really be sending him a signal, could she be trying to say. . .

"I swear, you remind me so much of cousin Cory from Tulsa." She patted his hand and stood up. "Both of you worry too much."

I No, /I Wesley thought, looking down at his desk and pretending to shuffle papers around, in order to hide the flush rising to his cheeks. I This day could definitely not be any worse. /I "It's not an idle worry, Fred." He heard himself getting testy, but couldn't seem to stop. "I'm at an age where I should be looking at promotion from sergeant to detective inspector. It shows exactly what this department thinks of me that, instead, I'm being assigned to baby-sit a tourist who wants to play detective constable. An I American /I tourist," he added with distaste.

Fred's brow wrinkled, and she didn't sound entirely playful as she said, "You have something against Americans?"

"No," he said hastily. "Of course I didn't mean you. The department recruited you because they had heard such good things about your work in London while you were taking your degree. This Bunny Saunders is no more than that most American of American things, a photo opportunity."

"Buffy Summers," Fred corrected. "And she graduated at the top of her class from the police academy in Los Angeles, and served two years in uniform. . .what? So I read about her in the paper."

"And let me guess, there was a picture. Because it was, as I mentioned, a photo opportunity." He shook his head. "I can guarantee I won't have the chance to do any real casework as long as I'm stuck supervising her." He shook his head. "And it's not as though I'm being punished for anything I've done. It's all about bloody politics."

"Well, you could. . ." Fred spoke hesitantly, and he heard it in her voice, that need to reconcile, the belief in talking things over and solving them rationally and making them better. It was the most American thing about her, and somehow it led into a fantasy where she was lying across his desk, pulling at the buttons of her conservative slacks, guiding his hand into her blouse and saying. . ."You could talk to your father."

"No!" Wesley felt actual pain as he winced from the suggestion. She looked at him curiously, and he realized how loudly he had spoken.

"I just meant because he's in politics," she said quietly.

I I'm sure this is the last friendly visit she pays at the office, /I he thought. And then, I Cousin Cory from Tulsa /I ? Wesley tried to sound calmer as he explained, "But you see, that's exactly the thing that I can't do, because if I do it, it only proves that I'm what they thing I am. Some berk with a posh education and an influential father."

"Wesley. . ." She stepped closer to him, and he couldn't help it, he loved the way she said his name, he wanted it to mean something. "Wesley, you know you're a good detective. What do you care what other people think?"

"I. . ." He started to answer, to say all the very good reasons he had learned that image mattered for a young detective sergeant trying to get the job done, but at the moment he couldn't think of any of them.

Voices started to clamor out in the squadroom, and Fred whirled around and sprinted to the doorway. "That must be her."

Wes jumped to his feet, not bothering to hide his own curiosity, and came to stand behind Fred. "Oh God," he said. "This is even worse than I thought."

"Why?" Fred asked.

"Look at her," he said. "I think she's wearing leather trousers."

Taking in the rumpled suits on the men in the squadroom, the pressed khakis and Oxford shirts on the handful of women, Buffy Summers immediately began to suspect that her pants were a mistake. She had spent her two years at the LAPD as a uniformed officer, and she was so excited to break out of the boxy, unflattering blues that she just might have overcompensated in the direction of form-fitting. It was true that the leather was functional; she had opted for a motorbike instead of testing her ever-sketchy driving skills on the wrong side of the highway, and her handful of biker friends on the L.A. force assured her that cowhide was the only way to keep out the wind. Still, she had to admit that the English locale stirred certain Diana Rigg-on- I The Avengers /I fantasies. But based on the looks she got walking into the squadroom, it seemed that her new colleagues were thinking less Emma Peel, and more Mistress of Pain.

The most horrified look came from a tall dark-haired man, who wore glasses and a most definitely non-rumpled suit. Aside from the expression of dismay, he looked like such a photospread from British GQ that, when he offered her a hand and said I Detective Constable Summers, I presume? Sergeant Pryce, /I she almost looked around for hidden cameras to see if she was being I Punk'd /I . She was supposed to be trained by a crochety old man like Inspector Morse or Inspector Frost – she had watched a bunch of these shows on BBC America while waiting to see if she had won the overseas assignment. Now it looked like she was going to be riding around in a car with Pierce Brosnan instead of John Thaw. Which, considering her history, and the situation that had helped to bring her here, was so very very not funny.

Then the woman next to the sergeant – dark-haired and slim, a few years older than Buffy, perhaps – offered her own hand, and said, "Fred Burkle, it's so great to meet you." Buffy was practicing the new game of trying to place a person's origin based on accent, so it took her a moment to register that this one screamed, "Texas."

"You're American?" Buffy said.

"My, and they told me you were keen," said British GQ, so mildly that it took Buffy a moment to be certain of the sarcasm. But the woman called Fred cast a glance at him that told Buffy this wasn't his normal attitude. He seemed to catch the look and then make a redoubled effort at civil behavior. "Dr. Burkle is from Texas," he said with forced joviality. "But we try not to hold it against her."

Dr. Burkle seemed to swerve away from the sergeant's jest. Pryce kept his eyes on her, while she focused on Buffy. "We should have an American girls' night out. I'll bring you the adaptor plugs nobody told you that you would need."

"Great," Buffy stammered, smiling because Fred had anticipated her greatest frustration on moving into her new flat – the fact that none of the appliances she had brought from L.A. had plugs to fit the outlets. "But don't you need them?"

"Oh," she dismissed, "I make my own. Just a little something I like to throw together."

Pryce cleared his throat. "Fred, I'll need to take DC Summers to the superintendent's office, so. . ."

"It's OK," she said, still looking at Buffy. "Just call me soon." She patted the sergeant's shoulder. "You can get my info from Wesley here." She winked. "We're buds."

"Yes, of course," he said, "Very good," and his eyes followed Dr. Burkle long after he should have turned his attention to Buffy. I So that's how that's gonna be, /I she thought, and had a brief flash of sympathy before he turned his eyes on her. "Constable Summers, you seem to be aware that this is a plainclothes assignment. Perhaps you should consider some clothes that are rather, well, I plainer /I ."

"Oh, don't be such a prig, Wyndsley," a voice boomed from behind them. "I think the lady looks quite fetching." She turned to see a distinguished-looking older man in a professorish tweed suit, with a clipped gray beard. He offered his hand, "Detective Superintendent Quentin Travers." His eyes traveled over her in a way that she didn't particularly like, and she decided that she would be wearing khakis tomorrow. The sergeant's disapproval might actually have egged her on, but Travers' praise had the opposite effect. Didn't English people know about reverse psychology. "My office, Pryce," he said, looking over her at the younger man. "Or were you planning on standing out here all day?"

"Of course." The sergeant gave a thin smile that Buffy immediately pegged as his very special English version of "Go fuck yourself." She wondered if Travers knew this.

As the three walked toward the super's office, he explained. "DS Pryce reports to me. Actually, he reports to the Detective Chief Inspector who reports to the Detective Inspector who reports to me. The British system tends toward the hierarchy, I'm afraid. But as you present a special case, DC Summers, you should never be afraid to come directly to the top of the food chain. Keep the sergeant on his toes." Then he smiled his own fuck-you smile back at Pryce. I Yup, /I , Buffy decided. I This is an old game between them, and neither of them is going to come out and say it. /I . She wondered what the story was, what kind of long-running drama she had walked into the middle of.

"Don't you agree, DC Summers?" Travers asked her.

"Yes, sir." Buffy nodded, wondering what she had just agreed to. She had been busy trying to unravel the dynamic between these men, while the superintendent was talking. And talking. And talking. All right, so she had never been a very good listener. She would be able to process everything better by doing it. And she could get the crib notes from Sergeant Pryce. Somehow she imagined that, if there were any important no-nos in the speech, she would be hearing them from the sergeant. Repeatedly.

But now she tried to tune in, as he seemed to be speaking about their first assignment. ". . .in order to ease the constable into her new duties and familiarize her with procedures, you'll be assigned some old cases to review. Re-canvass with a fresh set of eyes, see if there is anything the original investigators missed." He nodded toward a box of files on his desk. "I'd like you to start with Ethan Rayne."

"Old cases," said Pryce. "Of course, sir." At least, his voice said this. His eyes said I Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I "We'll just need to speak to the original investigating officer so that we don't duplicate. . ."

Travers waved a hand dismissively. "When I say fresh, I mean fresh. I would prefer to leave Sergeant Harker completely out of this."

Now came the first crack in Pryce's perfect composure. "Harker??" He said. "You're asking me. . .us. . .to go over ground that's been trod by William Harker? I don't suppose --" Casting a look at Buffy, he said, "Sir, I would prefer to discuss this in private."

"You have nothing to say to me," Travers said coldly. "That cannot be said in front of Constable Summers. If she hasn't heard, she certainly will."

"Well, then," Pryce continued. "I don't suppose this has anything to do with avoiding massive lawsuits and the possibility of every case that I former /I Sergeant Harker touched being thrown out of court? You see, Miss Summers," he said. "Even in Yorkshire we have our little one-man Ramparts scandal."

"Sergeant Harker had his differences with Yorkshire CID," Travers said. "But we parted on amiable terms, and there is no reason to poison our new trainee against him." He leveled a finger at her. "Don't believe everything you read in the newspaper." Looking up at Pryce, he said, "I don't buy this William the Bloody nonsense for a moment."

"Speaking respectfully, Sir?" said Pryce. "That's because you don't know Will Harker the way I do."

"Oh, yes, Wyndsley," Travers answered. "You know everyone, don't you? Which reminds me. . ." He reached into his pocket and drew out an old-fashioned men's watch. "Nine twenty-two, Greenwich Mean Time. You have your assignment. I'll be interested in exactly how long it takes for me to hear from your father."

Buffy hadn't thought it would be possible for the sergeant to grow any stiffer, but he managed to straighten his tall form even more, and his face went white as he said, "That won't be happening, sir."

"See to it, then," he answered. Rather than dismissing them, he simply looked down at his desk and started writing, as if they weren't there. Buffy looked at Pryce for a cue. He nodded at the box of files, then the door, so she lifted them, then followed him.

When they were in the hall, she said, "Brass, huh? Jackasses on either side of the pond."

"What's that?" He kept walking, briskly, letting her struggle to keep up with his long legs. Over his shoulder, he said, "I'd advise you to show a little more respect."

"Hey, if I could do the 'say polite things but obviously want to rip each other's throats out' kind of respect as well as you guys? I'd be all over that. But I don't think I'm English enough to compete, so I just have to say what I think. Who's your father?"

Pryce stopped so that Buffy and her box ran into him. He turned the sharp eyes on her now. Blue, she saw, they were very blue. "You're joking, right?" She shook her head. "You've met him. Had your picture taken with him. The local member of Parliament? It was his bright idea for Yorkshire to participate in this exchange program."

"Oh, him?" she said. "That Roger Windmill guy?"

"Wyndam-Pryce, though I've managed to avoid using the whole ridiculous moniker. Most of the time." He shook his head to dismiss the subject, and pointed at her box of files. "Let us talk about these cases."

"OK," said Buffy. "Who's William Harker?"

"Someone for us to avoid. And by us, I particularly mean you." He shook his head. "Will Harker could get his teeth in a case and worry it like a terrier with a rat. And leave it in about as big a mess. But then, if it didn't tie in to one of his pet obsessions, there's a chance he never looked into it at all. So as for this Rayne case, it may be a Chernobyl or a Siberia."

"Any chance it's something we can actually solve?"

"That," he said, looking at her file. "Is what we'll have to see about, Detective Summers."

"You know, you can call me Buffy."

"No," Pryce said, with the first hint of a smile that wasn't exactly a 'Fuck-you.' " "Not with a straight face, I can't. Will Summers do?"

"Yes, Wyndsley." She smiled with false innocence.

"If your blasted colonial informality can't get wrap your tongue around sergeant, 'Wesley' will be fine. Now let's get this case file to my car and get out of this damn office."

II. Chance Meetings

Buffy hefted the box of paperwork and stepped into the parking garage, looking for the car Sergeant Pryce had described. He had stayed back to check out with the desk sergeant, and all these bland grey and black English vehicles looked the same. She hadn't really expected to ride around in a Cooper Mini with the Union Jack painted on the roof, but did Yorkshire police have to be so boring? She couldn't imagine any of the L.A. cops she knew being caught dead in these things.

Which led to thoughts of Liam and his convertible, and that last day at the reservoir, the wind in her hair, the smell of meat on the grill because whatever else you could say about the man, he made a great bloody burger. And the way they had both agreed that they needed space, that he was still a married man and needed to see what might happen with Kate, and Connor, and God knew her own father was in Spain with his stupid secretary, and Buffy didn't think she had it in her to be the other woman. . . but Liam, and his eyes and his arms and the way he was always trying to do the right thing, to make everybody happy but himself. I Buffy, sometimes I think that if I was ever happy for a minute, the world would spin off its axis, and I've never met anyone who makes me happy the way you do, and I think that means we need to be apart. /I Liam and the way he could make her feel like a pathetic lost little girl, not by anything that was his fault, just by loving her, and why hadn't anybody ever told her that love was a curse as often as it was a blessing and. . .

"Who's there?" A footfall sounded behind her. Bracing herself, she moved one hand to her nightstick. She had always hated carrying a gun, but for a moment she missed it. Another footstep echoed, this time seeming to come from the other direction, and then a haunting whistle rose into the air. She recognized the tune, "Rain – drops keep fall- ing on my head."

"Hello?" she demanded, and at the same time the name on the murder file rose into her mind. RAYNE, it had read. ETHAN RAYNE. "Who's there?" she repeated.

"If I'm not mistaken, it's the new American bird. Fresh blood." The accent was city. London, probably. Light years from the clipped BBC tones of her sergeant. She turned around, slowly, three-hundred-sixty degrees, trying to make out the source of the voice. "Fresh blood's missing her gun, I wager. I never did understand why this country refused to properly arm its policemen. Particularly its policewomen. Leaves them vulnerable to those would do them harm."

"I don't need any gun." She set the files on the floor and lifted the nightstick. "Don't like the things. Hardly ever helpful. This stick I know how to use. And I was the city police athletic league judo and karate champion two years running."

"They have a girls' division? How enlightened. Of course," he sighed. "Hands or arms, you can't hit the thing you can't see." Now the voice was clearly behind her, and she turned to see a man stepping out of the shadows. The glow of a cigarette lit his long menacing face, high cheekbones skeletal in the orange light. His long black coat moved with his stride as he approached her, stopping only to ash his cigarette on the roof of a car. "I've got a message for your boss, fresh blood." Buffy planted her feet and squared her shoulders forward. "Relax, love. I'm one of the good guys."

"That's open to question." Sergeant Pryce's voice rang from across the garage. "If you have a message, Harker, give it to me. Leave my men out of this."

"Men?" The stranger mouthed at Buffy, and raised an eyebrow. The brows were dark, but his hair was a rather extraordinary shade of bleach blonde, with dark roots growing in.

I Harker, /I she thought. I William the Bloody? /I She could imagine him as a cop-gone-bad easily enough. Although, she had come onto the LAPD long after the Ramparts scandal broke, she had met a few holdovers, officers who weren't quite deep enough in the morass to lose their jobs, but who had come out less than squeaky clean. Others who had gone so deep undercover they couldn't find their way up anymore. "You're Sergeant Harker?"

"Former," called Pryce, moving toward them.

Harker leaned toward Buffy and offered his hand. "Call me Spike."

"Please don't," Pryce interjected. "You'll just encourage him."

"Spike?" She looked into his piercing blue eyes and accepted his strong, long-fingered grip on her palm. "I'm Buffy. You're not on the force any more, so what' your interest here? Are you, like, a private investigator."

"You might say that."

Pryce moved to step between them, and he turned that cold look on Buffy. She was disregarding his wishes about Harker, but, well, that was his problem. She wanted to understand Harker's situation for herself, and her sergeant was clearly too emotionally involved to give an objective assessment. Besides, she had to calculate that this Spike might turn out to be a valuable ally. Perhaps moreso than Pryce, who seemed to be on the outs with the powers-that-were. It was her instinct to like Wesley, but she also knew that it could be a mistake to get too entrenched in one camp too early in her career.

At the moment, Pryce was saving most of his fuck-you looks for Spike Harker. "He's a lot like a private inquiry agent," Wesley said. "Except that to actually I be /I a P.I., he would need a license that no agency in the United Kingdom would give to a man with his record."

"Oh what now, Wyndsley? Are you going to tell on me? Tell Daddy maybe. You won't of course. Because you need to know the things that I can tell you."

"If you have a message for me, spit it out."

"Right then. Skip the foreplay." Spike nodded and spoke one word. "Rayne."

"It's autumn in Yorkshire," Wesley answered. "Rain hardly qualifies as news."

"Ethan Rayne," Spike answered. "Your corpse."

"I know. I just thought I'd waste some of your time in exchange for your persistence in wasting mine."

"I spent a lot of time with that case."

"Oh joy," Wesley rolled his eyes at the ceiling, then said to Buffy. "It's to be Chernobyl then." Looking back at Harker, he said, "Are you warning me off, or does your message actually involve information we can use?"

"Information that's up your alley," Spike answered. "Not that you deserve it but. . ." He cast his eyes at Buffy. "Might keep the lady entertained." Then as if she weren't there, he said. "I like this one, you know. She might be good for you. Help you get your rocks off, save you from mooning over Labcoat Barbie all the livelong day."

Buffy curled her lip at Spike, deciding Pryce might have a point about him. "You're gross."

Spike turned to her and did an uncanny imitation of a SoCal valley girl accent. "Gross. Oh my God. Like, gag me with a purple smurf." Then, looking at Wesley, he reverted to his regular voice and said, "Oh, yes, she'll do nicely."

"Message?" Wesley repeated, and now his voice was less 'Fuck you,' and more 'I'd like to kill you with a teaspoon and serve your severed head with crumpets.'

"Books. I hear old Ethan liked books. I understand you might want to pay a visit to your friend Ripper."

Wesley looked as though this meant something, but his eyes narrowed. "Harker, if I find out this is a wild goose, so help me. . ."

He spread his hands, and backed away, whistling the "raindrops" song again. Wesley rolled his eyes and turned to his car. The one, Buffy noticed, that Spike had ashed on. "Oh, Wyndsley!" Spike called. Pryce stiffened but didn't turn, which seemed enough encouragement. "Three more words. Dog. Sheep. Deer."

Wesley whirled. "What?"

"Or maybe I should say, Wolf, Ram, Hart."

"I understand," he snapped. "And I say again, you had I better /I not be wasting my time."

"I tremble before your idle threats. Truly, truly I do." He turned his back, dropped his cigarette, and called over his shoulder. "Ask your friend Ripper."

Wesley stared after him and, as soon as he was gone, turned to his car, placed his hands on the roof, and kicked the tire ferociously three times. Then he smiled wanly at Buffy. "Sorry for that display."

"It's OK." She frowned after Spike. "I violently dislike that guy."

"I could tell," Pryce answered dryly, "By the way you were holding hands."

"I I shook /I his hand," she said. "And among my people? The non-stuffy people of the world? That doesn't exactly mean we're engaged."

"But it does make me wonder what exactly compels you to act friendly with someone I've specifically instructed you to avoid."

"Maybe the same thing that makes you instruct me to avoid people I could understand better if I talked to them myself."

He sighed and started to open the driver's side door. Then, seeing the ash on the roof, he scowled, wiped it off with his hand, and kicked the tire again. "Any more questions?" he asked Buffy.

"Wolf, ram, hart?"

"Nothing," he said firmly. "Harker's crazy talk."

"So you mean questions you feel like answering. All right then," she said. "Who's Labcoat Barbie?"

He looked down and almost blushed. "That I think you know, and I'm not going to discuss it."

"OK, an easy one. You have friends named Ripper?"

He looked up at her with an almost-real smile. "Now him, you can see for yourself."

The bell on the little door jingled, as Wesley entered, and Buffy squeezed after him. The must of mildew, old paper, and binding glue hit his nostrils as keenly as ever. Wesley often felt that he didn't have much understanding of the things he loved, or why he loved them, but he had no doubts about the readers' lust that ignited every time he walked into a bookshop. At university, he had toyed with a course of study in library science, or linguistics, before settling on the more practical criminology degree. This old-book smell always made him consider the virtues of the contemplative life he had rejected.

Even before he looked at Buffy, he knew her nose would be curled up like a rabbit's, and sure enough she sniffed and frowned, then whispered, "What does this guy rip, exactly?"

The front of the shop was empty, and it struck Wesley that it might be worthwhile to play this a little close to the chest. He placed a hand on Buffy's arm and said quietly. "For now, let's pretend you don't know me. We didn't walk in together, you're just browsing. Stay close enough to listen. Try to act like you belong here." His eyes wandered to her trousers. "Insofar as that's possible. See about something in khaki, do you think?"

She nodded. "New pants, check."

He almost choked. "Really, Buffy, that's a private matter." Then he remembered that to an American pants I were /I trousers, rather than underwear. Fortunately, before he had time to explain his confusion, Rupert Giles came from the back of the store with an armful of books stacked as high as his face. He nodded at Buffy, who immediately went to a bookshelf near the entrance and did a more or less convincing job of scanning the titles. Wesley approached Giles and put on as jovial a tone as he could muster. "Ripper, old boy, let me help you with those."

Lifting half the stack revealed Giles' genuine smile of delight. "Wesley, what a marvelous surprise. It's been much much too long."

"You know the life of a working man." Wesley felt a stab of guilt at playacting around someone he really thought of as a friend. Bugger policing in a small town, he thought, and wondered if Giles even recalled his profession. Most likely he did, but then, Giles sometimes seemed to live with his head in the clouds, and Wesley decided not to remind him right away. "Too many books, never enough time."

"Of course." Giles set his burden down on the counter, and Wesley put his beside them. "Now," Giles said, rubbing his hands together. "How is your charming American lady friend?"

"Sorry?" Wesley stammered, and almost blew his cover by looking at Buffy. She at least had the presence of mind to keep browsing, although he wished she would have noticed that the books she was looking at were in French. I Well, maybe she reads French, /I he thought, and then, I An American? Not bloody likely. /I 

Fortunately, Giles was leafing through one of the volumes on the table, and didn't notice the gesture at all. "The lady professor from Texas, who used to come in with you?" he said. "Fran, was it? I was just thinking of her, because we received some lovely illustrated volumes on the history of dance. That was her interest, was it not?"

"Ballet," Wesley said, not able to suppress a smile at the image it gave him of Winifred Burkle's graceful form twirling under a spotlight. "Dance and theoretical physics and forensic science. And nineteenth century children's literature. Quite a nimble mind Fred has." Now Buffy was definitely looking at him, and he thought, I Oh bugger, me and my mouth. /I He wondered how much he would be able to play off as a performance. Then it also occurred to him that if Buffy ended up going out for drinks with Fred, it couldn't hurt for her to have heard this. Finally it occurred to him that he was a thirty-five year old man investigating a homicide and not, in fact, a thirteen-year old boy with a juvenile crush, and that he really really needed to, as Buffy would doubtless phrase it, get a life.

Giles brightened. "I have quite a number of volumes on all of those subjects, actually." Leaning across the counter, man to man, he said in a confidential tone. "If there is any occasion for which a gift might be in order."

Wesley felt simultaneously better and worse. Better because he realized that a bookseller's gestures of friendship to a regular customer – a customer with very low sales resistance, and a trust-fund padded income -- inevitably had ulterior motives of their own. Worse for much the same reason. "Perhaps not today. Perhaps not ever, actually," he sighed, now trying to mask his own earlier uncertainty as romantic disappointment. Which, when it came to Fred Burkle, was not particularly difficult to fake. Confidentially, and rather hoping Buffy couldn't hear, he said, "Today she told me I reminded her of her cousin Cory from Oklahoma."

"Oh," said Giles sympathetically, "Well, they sometimes marry cousins in Oklahoma, correct?"

"And in the line of Wyndam-Pryce," Wesley said dryly. "But somehow I don't think she views Cory as a dark mysterious stranger type." And then, hoping he had established a sufficient level of intimacy to encourage confidence without having to delve any deeper into his own affairs, Wesley turned to the books on the counter and ran his finger over the spines. Gibbon's I Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire /I , all the volumes. A nice leather-bound edition but nothing remarkable. "So have you seen any interesting collections come through here in the past few months?"

"Interesting?" Giles removed his glasses and started to rub them with a pocket handkerchief. "Interesting in what way?"

"Just. . .interesting. The sort of thing that you know it when you see it?"

Giles' eyebrows went up as he replaced his glasses. "Well, yes," he said. "We do get a bit of that sort of thing. I hadn't imagined it would be up your alley, but. . .perhaps for the lady. Or. . .not for a lady, we have that as well."

"No." Wesley shook his head. "I didn't mean pornography. At least. . ." he paused. "I suppose it could be pornography, but. . ." I Exactly when, /I he thought, I did I get so bad at the detective part of detective work? /I 

"This is an official inquiry, then," Giles said, stiffly. "I'm disappointed in you, Wesley. I thought we were friends. Why don't you just come out and ask me if I knew Ethan Rayne?"

"Did you?" Wesley prompted.

"Of course," Giles answered. "And I know who killed him."

It took Buffy a while to notice that the books were in French. She didn't suppose this was a good sign of her surveillance skills. But she kept looking. As long as this Ripper guy didn't try to speak French to her, she thought she would be okay. And Wesley seemed to be keeping him occupied. She didn't get what he was up to at first. It just seemed like a friendly conversation, but other than having her suspicions about the sergeant and Dr. Burkle confirmed -- I a nimble mind? /I , I cousin Cory from Oklahoma? /I ; oh, Wes had it bad, and it wasn't good. But then she saw that he was trying to draw the ironically-named Ripper into a conversation about his trade, to see if there might be anything to Harker's hints without raising his friend's suspicions unnecessarily. Then Ripper seemed to think Wesley was talking about porn, which was amusing. And then she felt a pair of eyes on her, from the back of the store.

She placed the volume back on the shelf -- I Les Fleurs du Mal /I . Bad Flowers? – and tried to catch Wesley's eye, but he and Ripper were still going on about the porn. So she wandered to the back of the store, where a blonde boy huddled against the wall. She glanced at the shelves as she made her way back. Was there a children's collection back there? How long had that kid been there without making a sound? And why exactly was he looking at her with such interest.

A few feet from him, she stopped and looked at the shelf. Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury. So this was science fiction. The kind of thing her friend Xander used to haul around in high school, and the kid. . .well, at closer glance, he was older than he had appeared to be. A teenager. Maybe even older, maybe Buffy's age. But he was small, with dark hair and intense eyes that were fixed on her. "Hi," she said. "I didn't even hear you in here. Are these the books you like?"

"Some of them." He held up a paperback. "This is the best one. I've read it maybe twenty times." She saw the cover, Robert Heinlein, I Stranger in a Strange Land /I . That was one Xander had read, too, and Buffy tried to remember what he had said about it, why it had stuck in her mind. Oh yeah. _Heinlein was the most breast-fixated author in history. Not that this is a bad thing, you understand, only an observation. _ Somehow that didn't seem like the way to start a conversation. But then there was his accent. "That describes us a little, doesn't it?" she said. "You're from America too?"

He shook his head, then paused. "Well, originally from California. But we moved when I was a kid. So mostly Toronto." He shrugged. "Not that different."

"And you came here?" she prompted. "With your family?"

"A friend," he said. "I met a friend. I don't like your questions. I don't think you know French."

"_Je parle-vous français,_" she objected, hoping he wouldn't require any further evidence of the fact.

"You just said 'I you speak French,'" the kid answered.

"Well, I had a science teacher named Miss French once," she said, and went with the pleasing smile.

"You came in with that policeman," said the boy. "I know you're lying, I just don't know why.

"Oh," said Buffy, "I – wow, he did not tell me he was a policeman." She shook her head. "The thing is," she leaned closer to the boy. "He's married. And, I mean, we're not doing anything wrong. But you know how it is. Small town."

"I know who he is," said the kid. "He's not married. His dad is famous."

"Wow," she shook her head. "He's not married and he told me he was. The bastard."

"That doesn't even make any sense," said the kid. "Besides, you're kind of famous too. You were in the paper." He scowled. "I'm not telling Mr. Giles or anything but don't lie to me. I don't like it when people lie."

"Me neither," Buffy admitted. "I'm probably in the wrong line of work, do you think?"

He gave her a faint smile, and then she heard the bell jingling at the front door, and Wesley saying, loudly, "Maybe I'll be back for those dancing books, then?"

"I'll keep an eye out," answered Ripper. (Was this Mr. Giles? Buffy wondered)

"I think that's your cue," said the boy.

Buffy smiled at him, then edged back to the French poetry. At the front, Ripper Giles approached her with a beaming smile. "Puis-je vous aider, mademoiselle?"

Buffy's eyes widened and she said, "Non! Non non non non!" She pointed at the door, then at her watch. "Excusez-moi, s'il-vous-plait." And then she dashed out, looking for Wesley.

Giles watched her leave, and then the boy emerged from the back. "Oh," said Giles. "Jonathon. Good God, you frightened me." He frowned. "Was that one of your friends? From your, um, chatting rooms?"

The boy shrugged. "Strange girl. She tried to talk to me. I don't think she spoke any English though."

"Yes," said Giles. "Well, your lunch break is almost over, don't you think?"

"I'll get back in the back," Jonathon Levenson agreed.

Giles looked after the girl and shook his head. "Those really were some remarkable trousers."

Wesley looked a little annoyed when Buffy came out of the store. "I lost sight of you for a bit there."

"Man, I totally don't think he believed I was French."

"Yes." Wesley's mouth twitched. "That was perhaps more undercover than strictly necessary. I just thought it might be preferable not to come on with the full policeman's assault. And have an extra pair of ears, though. . ." He frowned. "How much did you hear?"

"Up to the part where he thought you were trying to buy porn for Dr. Burkle. Which, you know. . .direct approach is not always bad. At least she wouldn't mix you up with cousin Cory again."

"Oh God," he sighed. "I suppose that's a very bad sign?"

"Speaking for all women everywhere, as I am so often called upon to do?" She shrugged. "I'm not gonna lie, it's not a check in the 'harbors a secret crush on you' column. But maybe she doesn't know how you feel."

"Everybody else seems to," he pointed out. "Including people I've just met, people I barely know, and, oh yes, mortal enemies."

"So maybe she does know, and she's just avoiding the issue. It's kind of like when my friend Xander wanted to ask me to Spring Fling, but our friend Willow. . ." She saw the pained look on his face. "Not really with the helping, am I?"

Wesley shook his head. "On the more pleasant subject of mortal enemies? I'm afraid mine has let us astray. That's why it doesn't matter what you heard, or whether Rupert thinks you're French. Or any of it. Giles knew Ethan Rayne as an occasional customer, nothing more. He hasn't bought or sold anything unusual recently. In fact, Rayne's collection was mostly old American Westerns, detective novels, and other pulps. Certainly nothing worth killing for."

"So that's it?" Buffy blinked. "Can we just talk more about your love life, then?"

"Oh, we should be so lucky." He made a face. "Better idea. Let's get you back to the station, take care of some paperwork. I'll get you a tour of the facilities. Maybe Fred can show you around forensics? Then, well. . .you've been through a lot for a first day, and I can tell you this old case isn't getting up and walking anywhere. So you can spend the rest of the day reading up on the files. Then you can take off at five. . .maybe a little before, and, well, amuse yourself."

"Clothes shopping?" she suggested.

"I wasn't going to say it."

needs to be something a little off with what Wes said that's going to stick with Buffy, but I have to figure out more of the plot and go back to work the clues in


End file.
